Fix You
by hansprinsessa
Summary: In Eric's final days, Pam issues an ultimatum. Based on the 7x05 preview, spoilers for Season 7. Paric one-shot.


**A/N: I was listening to "Fix You" by Coldplay pretty much on repeat while I wrote this, hence the title. I hate Coldplay. What are you doing to me, Paric? **

**Based on **_**that**_** preview for 7x05, a submission to imagineparic on Tumblr, and my love Dani's heartwrenching tags on that post. FYI, warning for discussion of suicide.**

* * *

"Eric."

He freezes, his back still turned to the door, his heart dropping at the pained sound of her whisper, knowing that he's caught.

He had been so careful not to let her know how much his disease had progressed in the last few nights, which had become increasingly difficult since, once they left Shreveport, she had refused to leave his side, even for a moment; something that she blamed on her panic when she couldn't find him for the briefest of moments outside of their club, but he knows they _both_ know the truth.

She's afraid that he'll run from her again. Disappear, just like he's done one too many times before.

The knowledge digs at him, and yet he doesn't know how to reassure her that this time, knowing his days are numbered, he plans to spend his final days with her; as long as he has left. As many times as he opened his mouth to tell her just the night before, when he would catch her staring at him as if she expected him to vanish before her very eyes, the words of comfort would never come; mostly because he's fully aware that he has no right to expect her to believe him.

And so, he hadn't complained when, although they had reserved two rooms, she had hovered in his hotel room even as the sun began to rise. She had smiled indulgently at him, though, when he complained about her apparent disinterest in resting herself once his fatigue had forced him into bed for the day, refusing to remove his leather jacket that hid the worst of his darkened veins, voicing his irritation that it should be him watching over her, not the other way around. His complaints had stopped the moment she climbed up on the large bed beside him, however; watching her closely as she leaned her back against the wooden headboard. When his rest finally claimed him, he had been lulled into it by her fingers combing slowly through his hair, affording him a feeling of total peacefulness that he had been denied for far too long.

When he awoke that evening, she was already gone, much to his disappointment. He knew what they had planned for the evening, however, and he could hear the familiar sounds of her getting ready in the adjoining room. For a few moments he lay there, simply listening to her go about her routine, as familiar and comforting to him as his own, before he forced himself from the bed and into the shower, moving slower and slower as the early evening wore on; his limbs growing heavier, his mind moving more sluggishly as his progressing disease chipped away at his strength.

Which was how he managed to get caught with his back to the door, still shirtless, with the proof of his quickly deteriorating condition literally written all over his bare skin for her to see.

"_Eric_," she repeats when he doesn't turn to face her, her voice so small and thin, if it wasn't the sound that filters through a hundred years worth of memories he wouldn't recognize it.

"Pam," he replies, matching her hushed tone, his shoulders slumping, knowing that he can't hide from her any longer. Without even so much as a glance at her face, he can feel the fear rolling off of her in waves, just as surely as if their blood was still bonded.

Slowly, he turns to face her, an apology poised on his lips. For everything that had transpired over the past few years, for abandoning her, for the selfish way he reacted when she finally caught up to him, and finally, for hiding from her the truth; cruelly letting her think they had more time left together than they do.

But as soon as his eyes land on her, for the first time in what surely feels like decades, his mind clears completely. Gone is the weight of the blood on his hands from his sister's death. Gone is the constant ache in his heart that his maker left behind when he departed. Gone are the fears and stress of this constant war they seem to have been fighting for the past few years, and the pain and suffering brought on by the disease that is slowly but surely stealing away his thousand year long existence.

"Pamela," he whispers, his gaze slowly lowering from her eyes that shine with tears and her trembling chin, to the sparkling purple and silver evening gown that hugs her every curve, forced to swallow the lump that forms in his throat before he's able to finish hoarsely, honestly, "You look _beautiful_."

She smiles; a soft, shaky expression that is so full of pain, of _agony_, his self-loathing hits him so hard he's forced to take a breath he doesn't need; knowing that a little caution on his part could have saved her from this. That it's his fault that the expression that should never be on her beautiful face is there in the first place.

For all his self-reflection in his six months abroad, out of all the things he regrets, it was this that seemed to weigh the most heavily on him. Over a century before, when she was still human, still a stranger, her pain had eaten away at him, nagging at him as she shared it with him in a whisper as they lay together in bed. He could have left her to it, left her to turn cold on the floor of her brothel that night by her own hand, but instead his every instinct called on him to save her from it.

He made her his that night, and when she awoke the next, it was to promises of a better life. One free of the pain that plagued her as a human.

For so long, he kept that promise. The world wasn't _his_ oyster, as he had told her in France when he tried unsuccessfully to send her away so she didn't have to see what she sees now. It was _their_ oyster. Their travels were more often than not dictated by her whims, since he had been most everywhere there was to go hundreds of years before she was even born. He had enjoyed seeing it all again through her eyes as he laid the world at her feet.

He hadn't intended on becoming a maker that night, but never once did he resent it; instead, he embraced it fully from their first night together, as well as an unspoken promise that, just as she had insisted before she slit her wrists, leaving him more terrified than he had been in nine-hundred years, a life with him could be one worth living.

Had he ever even told her that it was she that made _his_ life worth living again?

Suddenly, he can't seem to remember. His mind, slothful from the virus and heavy with the knowledge that his time is short, seems to be only keen to remind him of all the things he _knows_ he's said. How cold he's been to her in the last few years, how cruel he had been more than once. Every tear he's seen fall from her eyes, and all the tears he knows her well enough to know that she saved for when she was alone, that were born of heartache that _he _created.

His actions had fractured them, torn apart what they had been for a century, and even if his expiration date wasn't fast approaching, even if he still had an eternity stretched out before him, he would never be able to forgive himself for what he had done to the only good, constant, _pure_ thing he had ever held onto in his life. The only thing he had _ever_ managed to do right.

_Her._

"Thank you," she finally whispers, her voice nearly inaudible, and when she blinks, a tear spills over her lashes, the streak of red cutting a path down her porcelain cheek.

Although he's forced to move slowly, he makes his way over to where she stands by the bed, her small beaded bag clutched between her slender fingers. Irrationally, he almost expects her to flinch away from his touch when he reaches for her, but when his fingertips brush her cheek she automatically leans into his touch, her eyes falling closed, causing another tear to be displaced.

"None of this," he murmurs, clucking his tongue in disapproval with a weak, small smile, carefully wiping away the blood from beneath her lashes with his thumb. "You'll ruin your makeup."

When she opens her eyes, he's surprised again as he so often is by the depth of the pools of blue, nearly shimmering with the tears welled within them. Her gaze stays trained on his neck, and he watches her closely as she swallows, and then swallows again, as if she doesn't trust her voice.

"It's worse," she whispers thickly, and his eyes stay focused on her face, suddenly wondering how he's ever in a hundred years been able to look away. Studying everything about her as if he can take the memory with him when he's gone; the curve of her full lips, the sweep of her lashes over her cheeks, the slight upturn of her nose.

Only the soft, gentle touch of her fingertips against his collarbone break him from memorizing the face he's looked upon for a century as if it's a new sight to behold, and for a brief moment his own eyes fall closed at the sensation of her skin against his, and the unexpected intimacy of her touch.

When he opens them again, it's to find her bottom lip trembling as she traces her fingers over the diseased veins visible underneath his skin, and he swallows, trying to steady his voice before he whispers the truth to her, his voice hoarse, cracking halfway through his words.

"I'm going to die, Pam."

It's amazing to him how quickly he went from being resigned to this fact, from _wishing _for it, to fearing it, dreading it with every fiber of his being. It had all changed the moment he saw her again, although he had done all he could do to hide it from her, to push her away, until he simply couldn't pretend any longer.

He had forced his selfishness away by focusing instead on the one thing that had kept him going for nearly a thousand years…revenge. At first, it was the only thing that kept him moving; that, and her insistent prodding as she forced him to dress more like his normal self, her jaw set in a rigid line as she herself fixed his hair, supervised his every meal, and drug him to the airport.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, listening to the sound of her voice as she spoke of times long since passed, he remembered _why_ he had to fight. He remembered what had all but sidelined his last quest for revenge a century before, his search for Russell Edgington, in favor of something _real_.

_Her_.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she whispers, her soft voice cutting through his thoughts.

"I didn't want to scare you," he answers just as quietly, watching her as she tosses her bag down onto the bed behind them without looking.

"I'm _already_ scared," she says, her voice cracking as her newly freed hand joins its mate, her fingers continue to move, tracing the dark veins that stretch across his skin like spiderwebs. He watches as her lips curl up into a sad smile, her fingers moving over his chest and to his shoulders, her voice becoming impossibly quieter when she speaks again. "I'm _terrified_."

His smile doesn't begin to reach his eyes as he stares down at her, relishing in the sensation of her fingers on his skin, yet unable to forget what lurks below them, the poison that darkens his veins. "I didn't want you to see me this way, Pamela," he husks, taking a step closer, leaving her palm pressed against his skin, "I don't want you to remember me this way."

She glances up into his eyes briefly, her eyes shimmering with tears, before she looks down again, unable to hold his eyes as she asks, "What's going to happen?"

This time, it's he that looks away, visions of his sister's death still so vibrant in his mind, the pain still so fresh, as well as the recent memories of the vampires that filled what was once their bar, reduced to nothing more than animals, snarling dogs fighting over a bone.

Slowly, he shakes his head, a soft smile curving his lips as he meets her eyes again. "You've seen what happens," he answers her, and he reaches out, wrapping one of her curls around his finger, watching the way it gleams like gold even in the low light of the room. "I will waste away, Pamela."

Her eyes flash, even with the tears rimming her lids managing to look murderous as she whispers under her breath, "I'm _going_ to find the cure. I _will_ fix you."

"It's too late," he says gently, his fingers moving from her hair to her shoulder, letting his fingertips trail over it and down the bare skin of her arm. She looks _so_ beautiful, he muses to himself, dressed the way this woman was _meant _to be dressed. Draped in the finest fabrics of her favorite vibrant colors, not the harsh style she had adopted in recent years to please the crowd of their now defunct business venture.

"Eric," she whispers as his hand unconsciously wraps around her arm, just above her elbow, tugging her closer gently without truly thinking about it, "You don't think there's any reason to fight for a cure?"

His eyes lower to where her palm is pressed against his chest, the pale perfection of her skin only making the mess of disease his has become seem more prominent. Without looking up at her, he shakes his head, knowing he's too far gone, and so different from just a few days before where he was _glad_ to be meeting his end, knowing that she will suffer chokes the words that he wants to say. Speeches he's practiced in his head, words spoken with flourish to convince her they're as sincere as they truly are.

"I'm so sorry, käresta," he murmurs hoarsely, simply; wishing that those three words were enough to encompass the seemingly endless list of things he has to be sorry for. For leaving her, even when she begged him not to. For pushing her aside for someone as utterly unworthy of his time as Sookie Stackhouse. For what he had done that lead up to their prison sentence in Louisiana; the place that had ultimately torn their lives asunder. For contracting the disease that will bring their story to such an untimely end. "For _everything_," he finally adds out loud, hoping that she'll believe him, although he knows he has no right to expect her to.

She shakes her head slightly, causing her perfectly curled hair to tumble around her bare shoulders, and although he's waiting, _hoping_, for her to accept his apology, when she finally speaks, she catches him completely off guard.

"Will you care when it's me?" she asks softly, her eyes finally rising from his chest to meet his, "When I have it, when I'm dying too…will you care to find a cure then?"

"What?" he whispers, his eyes growing wide as panic begins to consume him, his eyes searching her creamy, pale skin fruitlessly for any signs of the disease that consumes him. "When?" he asks hoarsely as he pulls her closer, his fingers running over her bare shoulders, his mind racing. She's barely been out of his sight since she found him, and his alarm begins to build when she says nothing, her eyes searching his when he forces his gaze from her seemingly unblemished flesh to meet hers, murmuring her name in a tight voice, "Pam?"

"I don't have it," she whispers softly, and his shoulders slump in relief, his hand rising to wrap around hers, keeping their twined fingers against his chest, but her next words cause his cool blood to run colder as she adds quietly, "I want you to give it to me."

He tries to take a step away from her in his surprise, but she tightens her grip on his hand, and in his weakened state she easily keeps him in place. Already, he's shaking his head, but she reaches up, pressing her fingers of her free hand against his cheek, and immediately he feels some of the fight he was gearing up for leave him, leaning into her touch automatically as he whispers, "Have you lost your fucking _mind_?"

"No," she answers, "No, I haven't. But I've made a decision."

"I'm not going to—" he begins.

"If you won't, I'll find a way myself, Eric. You _know_ I will, and you _know_ it won't be hard to do."

He's silent for a moment, staring down at her, imagining seeing her as she sees him now; her beautiful, perfect skin riddled with poison-filled veins, her bright, lively eyes dull and lackluster; the mere idea so abhorrent he can only breathe out one word, so many questions rolled into one.

"Why?"

Her smile is soft, but he can see the stubbornness in her eyes that he knows so well, having been on the receiving end of it for a century already. "Do you remember my last words to you, Eric? Before you turned me?"

"Thank you," he answers softly, honestly; not sure if she herself even remembers breathing out the words as he drained her of the blood she hadn't spilled herself in the seconds before her human life was snuffed out completely, her transformation to vampire beginning. Her transformation to becoming _his_.

She smiles sadly, shaking her head slowly as her fingers stroke softly over his cheek. "Before that, Eric," she chides him in such a familiar way he can't help but smile, despite the heaviness of their conversation.

His eyes turn down to where their fingers are laced together against his chest, letting out a breath before he answers her, "Let me walk the world with you."

"Yes," she breathes, "_That_ is what I signed up for. Walking the world with _you_. Not alone."

He shakes his head, his voice becoming stern as he starts to speak. "But—"

"No," she interrupts, not letting him finish, "I've done enough of that these last few years to know it's not for me." She falls silent, a look of challenge on her soft features as she stares up at him, her fingers falling from his cheek to his throat, before curving around the back of his neck. "This is what I want, Eric."

"No," he answers harshly, "I _won't_."

"We'll find a cure," she answers, as if he hasn't spoken, "We'll find a cure _together_. Or…or we won't. And we'll die _together_."

"Pamela—"

"I've _earned _this, Eric," she speaks over him again, her voice rising, landing somewhere between a plea and a demand. "When I asked you to turn me, I wasn't asking to live forever. I wanted to be with _you. _A century at your side. As your _partner_. You can't expect me—"

"I can," he interrupts, his voice sounding stronger, more like himself than he has in days. "I _can_, and I _will_."

"Why would you be so cruel?" she asks, and if she notices the impact her words have, echoing words she can't know were among the last that Godric spoke to him, she doesn't show it. Her voice only lowers, becoming even more brittle as she adds softly, "How could you do that to me?"

"I can't," he answers, shaking his head, taking a step away from her, suddenly not trusting himself. "I can't knowingly hurt you."

"You'll be giving me a _gift_," she insists, her voice climbing higher, more desperate, "A hundred years together. You let me _live_, Eric, by your side for a _century_." Her voice softens again, her eyes pleading as she begs him quietly, "Please let me die with you."

"I can't," he whispers, his eyes rimming with blood even as he steps towards her, reaching for her. "I need to know you will live on. Our _blood_ will live on. That hasn't changed, Pamela," he goes on, "I can't leave this earth without knowing—"

His words die on his lips as he watches a tear escape her eyes. "Selfish bastard," she whispers, before she turns so quickly her blonde curls fly out behind her.

"Where are you going?" he asks her, following her at a much slower pace as she moves towards the door, an edge of panic in his voice.

She turns again, taking the few steps to bring them face to face again, her tears falling more freely now. "You are _leaving_ me. _Again_. You've done nothing but hurt me for _years_ now. I've stood by after you cast me aside, I've been there when you needed me, and stood in your fucking dust when you've left me behind." Her chest is heaving, her jaw set angrily as she pauses, before she finishes in a hiss, "I'm going to do what I always do, Eric. I'm going to stop waiting on _you_, and take matters into my own hands."

"Pam," he whispers, reaching out to grab her wrist when she tries to turn away again.

"You told me you would always protect me," she goes on, her voice suddenly ice cold, "You used to keep your promises. Protect me from _this_. Protect me from living without you. Because I can't do it. I _won't._"

"Pamela, please," he begs fearfully.

"Protect me," she whispers, her eyes practically burning in the low light of the room in her vehemence, "Protect me or I'll protect myself. Do this for me, and if you won't, I'll find someone who _will_."

This time, when she turns away, he lunges for her, faster than he's moved in weeks. He grabs her upper arm roughly, spinning her back to face him, a dangerous growl rumbling through his chest as her body presses against his.

She's right. He's done nothing but break promises to her, leave her, abuse her trust and her loyalty.

She's _right_. He _owes_ her. And no matter how much their relationship has deteriorated in recent years, no matter how much he's ignored her wants and needs in favor of her own, he's never been good at refusing her.

He strikes so suddenly she shrieks in surprise, wrenching her more tightly against him before he sinks his fangs into her throat, over the exact spot where he bit her the night that he turned her, where he's bitten her in the throes of passion purely for nostalgia's sake what must be thousands of times over their century together. Such a fitting way to start the beginning of their end, in the same way he began their start.

Her blood flows freely into his mouth, the taste of it sweet and familiar on his tongue, and she falls against him, a desperate sounding moan escaping her lips as her hands run over the bare flesh of his shoulders, before sliding up to sink into his hair, urging him to drink more.

This time it's he that moans raggedly as he gulps down her blood greedily, having gone far too long without tasting her, suddenly unable to believe that he was going to meet the true death without experiencing her again. His hands clutch at her fitfully, desperately trying to get closer, and although he knows every part of him is poison, he _longs_ to kiss her, to bury himself inside her; to feel whole one more time in the way only she has ever provided.

He knows he's out of time to make things right, one last time. In so many ways, it's too late.

"Thank you," he hears her whisper, and a choked sob escapes him, a wet sound against her flesh as she murmurs the words again and again, just as she did the night he turned her. He can feel the cool wetness of his own tears on his cheeks as he pulls away suddenly, leaving her gasping at the loss of his fangs in her flesh, his own chest heaving as he meets her eyes.

There is only the briefest moment of hesitation before their lips crash together, fingers sinking into each other's hair as their tongues meet, sounds of desperation escaping them both as they struggle to get closer, to deepen their kiss, to satisfy the hunger for each other that still remains so strong after a century.

Without breaking away from her lips, his hands span over her back, before his large fingers begin fumbling with the zipper running down the back of her dress. In seconds, he's managed to lower it, his fingers delving inside to feel her cool skin before he tugs on the clingy fabric, causing it to fall, sliding down her curves until it pools on the floor around her feet.

He pulls her closer, one hand wrapped in her curls to keep her lips against his as the other palms her lower back, tugging her against him. They both groan into their kiss as her bare flesh comes into contact with his, although she pulls away enough to reach between them, her usually deft fingers shaking as she struggles with his belt and the fly of his pants.

Growing impatient, he backs her up until the back of her knees hit the bed, lowering himself on top of her slight frame as she falls backwards onto the soft blankets where she watched him rest the day before. His lips finally leave hers, burying his face in the sweet-smelling crook of her neck as he reaches down, assisting her in freeing him from his trousers, kicking them away once she pushes them over his hips.

His hand wraps around his length, bringing his swollen tip to her entrance, moans escaping them both as he coats himself in her wetness. "Pamela," he whispers hoarsely against her throat, "I'm sorry I…I can't…" His words trail off, overwhelmed with everything he truly needs to apologize for, at the forefront of which not being able to wait another moment, for not being able to make this last, for being both out of time, and completely and utterly out of patience.

"_Please_," he finally finishes, seeking permission, seeking forgiveness.

"Yes," she answers simply, and with one smooth stroke he buries himself to the hilt inside her for the first time in far too long.

"_Pamela_," he breathes out raggedly against her throat, the sound of his voice drowned out by her strangled moan as her body struggles to accommodate his sudden intrusion, all while he struggles to understand why he let them drift apart, why he has denied himself the only thing he's truly ever needed for so fucking long.

_Her_.

"Eric, please," she whispers, her nails digging into his shoulders before they slide down his back, pressing against the base of his spine, urging him to move, repeating herself in a whisper, "_Please_."

He nods, his blood-stained lips brushing against her throat, before he pulls back, almost completely unsheathing his length, before his hips surge forward, filling her once again. Their moans echo each other as their bodies come together in a way they've only ever experienced with each other; completeness that can only come from one another after a century of exactly this.

He moves again, and gasps out when he feels her fangs pierce the flesh of his shoulder, the sensation nearly driving him over the edge immediately as he begins to move over her feverishly, choosing to ignore the stabbing pain in his heart knowing that there's no turning back, no chance in hell that she won't contract the virus now as she ingests his poisoned blood; instead relishing in the sensation of her fangs in his throat, his cock buried within her, her nails digging into his flesh, her smooth skin pressed against his.

"Home," he whispers suddenly, his hips never stilling, repeating himself before he buries his fangs in her slender neck once more, "_Home_."

Once her blood hits his tongue, the exchange between them causes the tiniest of sparks to take hold, growing into a candle's flame as their blood intertwines, undoing the one thing he regrets most out of all his transgressions: releasing her. Nothing like it was before, but he can feel her again, in his head and in his heart; feel her devastation, her fear, but most of all her _love._

When she pulls away from his throat, their lips meet once again, the taste of their combined blood thick on both their tongues as their kiss deepens. But soon, his fatigue begins to catch up with him, until his hips still completely, his forehead dropping to rest against her shoulder as he breathes heavily, both of them clinging to each other.

"I'm sorry," he whispers, and she shakes her head as she gently pushes against him, rolling with him as he turns over onto his back.

Her porcelain cheeks are stained with tears, a sad, sweet smile on her lips as she settles astride his hips, leaning down to brush her lips against his before murmuring against them, "Let me."

He nods slowly, his hands settling on her hips as she begins to move over him, only able to contribute by helping lift her small frame off of his, before lowering her onto his length over and over again as she rocks against him. Their gazes stay locked, drinking each other in, his eyes only moving away from hers to take in how breathtaking she looks as she fucks him, slowly now, her curls a mess as they tumble around her shoulders, framing her beautiful face.

Their newly bonded blood, hardly a shadow of what they shared before, allows him to feel her, the sorrow in her blood matching his own. But soon, he can feel her imminent release as it builds, and when his hand slides between them, pressing against her sensitive flesh, her pleasure as it blossoms and blooms within her is his own undoing.

She collapses against him, their lips meeting as they both find their release, only sighing softly into their kiss as it all comes to an end; so soft and quiet, wrought with sadness as compared to the explosiveness of their usual couplings. She tries to move away as if she's afraid her slight weight will cause him pain, but his arms tighten around her, keeping her in place, and when she settles against him with her face tucked in the crook of his neck, he can feel the wetness of her tears as they drop to his cool skin.

"I love you," he whispers after a moment, his voice hushed, thick with grief; and although he intends to leave it simply at that, he can't seem to help himself from continuing, telling her what he knows she needs to hear as much as he knows he needs to say it. "I loved you when I met you. I loved you before you even existed, Pamela. You were _meant_ to be mine."

He pauses when he feels her take a shuddering breath, pressing his lips against her hair, whispering into her golden curls, "A hundred years is not enough."

"No," she answers, her voice hoarse with tears, her fingers stroking over the darkest veins on his chest as her small body quakes with a sob. "What are we going to do, Eric?" she asks softly, her voice trembling, so soft and so weak it makes his heart clench almost painfully.

He leans back as his fingers touch her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His thumb passes through the tears that still fall from her eyes, and his voice is soft when he speaks, knowing now _exactly_ what he has to live for.

_Her_.

"Well," he whispers, offering her a small smile, one that she manages to return when he finishes softly, "Let's go find ourselves a cure, shall we?"

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**A/N: I hate myself. Review if you don't hate me too :) (PS- I'm working on Bad Company, for real, but these one shots keep popping up in my head and I figure I only have a few weeks left of writing scenes before they happen, and forever to write AU's when it's all over :( I promise I'll get to it eventually).**

**Until next time. Kisses.**

Translations:

käresta - sweetheart


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